I write a lot. In fact, I’m writing right now. Well, probably not right now, while you’re reading this. Though possibly. Actually, probably. Yeah. I’m writing.
I’m a professional writer. People pay me money to write. All kinds of people do this. Large companies that have offices around the globe and are mentioned on the news and have t.v. commercials have me write for them. Tiny companies with people that rent out office space in strip malls and have one co-worker (likely their spouse) have me write for them. Web sites, magazines, video production companies. They all have me write for them.
And you know what? Writing hurts.
It hurts my brain. It hurts my fingers and my hands. It hurts my eyes, staring at this computer monitor most of my days. I’m sure sitting in this chair for hours isn’t good for my butt. And I tend to eat while I work, so who knows what kinds of problems I’m developing internally (these veins aren’t going to unclog themselves).
But writing can also hurt the heart, and I’m speaking of this in a metaphorical sense. The Internet gives people a sense of entitlement. We are all anonymous bits and bytes when you look at things through a WWW lens. There’s no human on the other side, with a life, reading and feeling and thinking and eating and pooping and sexing. It’s just a post, some words, scribbled on a screen that doesn’t exist in any real physical space. But that’s untrue. These are people, and we are alive and we do think and feel and poop and eat and whatever else it is that us people all do.
So sometimes I feel bad writing things. And sometimes I feel bad when I read things. It hurts. But if you don’t stick your neck out and do something, make something, create something that is your own, then you won’t ever really be doing anything. And doing things is what life is all about. So don’t worry about the hurt. Who cares what people say? If it shakes you up, it’s your own doubt, your own inner-voice amplified outside of yourself to hear. If you’re confident, if you’re proud of what you’ve done, then you know it’s not your problem. It is theirs, the ones that write the things that hurt. And you just keep on going.